Homecoming
Sunday, Jun. 2 Cinnamon rolls, that’s what I
don’t smell. Everyone sleeps. This room
isn’t mine, doesn’t feel like rest.
Pillow doesn’t remember
my shoulder.
Sunday, Jun. 9 Too quiet since Dad moved
into his office. Little brother tunes out and hides
headphones in every room, Mom hides
wine in the bathroom cabinet.
Sunday, Jun. 16 Father’s Day. Brother and I
make muffins: “close enough.” Dad is
laughing in the pew with his arm around
my fourth-grade counselor, who
sings every Sunday.
Sunday, Jun. 23 I need to notice everything.
Therapist will ask. In the margins of the bulletin
my capital letters look like his; my cursive
all her. Soon we’ll replay yesterday’s game
and forget.
Sunday, Jun. 30 There is no stained glass.
Gray carpet and a scarlet banner, with two
white satin doves high-fiving.
I always overdress and sit
too close to the front.
Sunday, Jul. 7 “Who do you belong to?”
I’m supposed to smile, say
my family name.
I’m getting braver,
unlearning.
Sunday, Jul. 14 Some woman’s hand
on my head. I tell her, The Holy Ghost
might not remember me. My eyes don’t
know how to stay shut anymore
when God speaks.